Maintain Consciousness
by Alice Foxworth
Summary: John sat by Sherlock's grave. In one hand, he held a bottle of whiskey, in the other hand, he held his Sig Sauer P226R. Rated M. Warnings in each chapter
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Maintain Consciousness**

**Fandom: Sherlock BBC**

**All credit goes to Moffat, Gatiss, Benedict, Martin, ACD (of course), and everyone else involved. No copyright infringement intended**

**Warnings for heavy drinking, mild language, and drug usage.**

Chapter 1

John sat by Sherlock's grave. In one hand, he held a bottle of whiskey, in the other hand, he held his Sig Sauer P226R. The whiskey was popped open and half had already been either drunk by John or poured on Sherlock's grave as a tribute. John was toying with the safety on the Sig, carelessly pointing it vaguely in his direction.

The graveside visits had quickly become routine after Sherlock's death, taking up all the spare time that sprinkled John's already busy schedule. He still worked at the nearest surgery, although lately he had proven near useless due to his grief. He still consulted with Lestrade sometimes, but John knew it was only because the DI felt sorry for him. He didn't actually provide any useful information or deductions like Sherlock had.

When John wasn't working or being consulted or sitting like a vegetable in the flat, he was at Sherlock's grave. The whiskey and gun, however, were celebratory. He usually just sat, empty-handed or with a book or his laptop, blog open, by the grave. Then he would go hang out at a pub and drink until he couldn't think straight and wander home only to stare at the gun on the table.

This time, he had brought the gun. He set the whiskey down and shifted the gun from his right hand into his left. Hand shaking, he brought the gun up so that the tip of the muzzle pressed into his temple. He breathed heavily and stared at the tombstone in front of him.

There was the name of the idiot who had betrayed him: SHERLOCK HOLMES. Consulting Detective, the only one in the world. He was still the only one in the world, either because no one else was smart enough, or because the only person who had been 'trained' in the profession was too distraught to even consider continuing the practice.

Licking his lips and grimacing, John tightened his finger on the trigger of the Sig. 'Happy Anniversary, Sherlock.' He muttered. His finger tightened, squeezed, strained.

He let out the breath he had been holding and lowered the gun, back slumping and eyes drooping out of exhaustion and discouragement. He had dragged himself here, he'd been planning this day since Sherlock's death, and now, he couldn't do it. He couldn't bring himself to end the pathetic excuse for a life he had and join Sherlock in – wherever it was he had ended up. John was pretty damn sure he'd end up there as well.

He sighed and looked down at the bottle of whiskey. Glencoe. The syrup-colored liquid shined up at him, offering release from his pain. John gritted his teeth before obliging, drowning his sorrows in alcohol. The alcohol didn't give him anything back, just took his sanity, but he was content with letting his mind drift away from him and not caring what was on the telly or where he was supposed to be. He wondered if this was what Sherlock took the drugs for all those years ago. Maybe he'd have to try that someday. Then again, today would be optimal.

He made up his mind to look for drug dealers when he took his nightly trip down to the pub tonight. If he found any, great, he'd try them out. If he didn't, he'd just lean on more whisky. With that decision, he picked up his gun, clicked the safety back on, finished off the whisky, already feeling a bit woozy, and stood. He brushed the dirt and grass off of his back end and took a step back, still facing the ugly and familiar gravestone. SHERLOCK HOLMES.

'I'm sorry, Sherlock.' He said before heading to the entrance of the graveyard. Around him, the other graves were decorated lavishly with peonies, daffodils, crudely picked dandelions that practically gave off childish naivety, roses, and the occasional daisy.

John picked up a random flower bouquet tied with a skimpy ribbon off of a nearby grave marked 'Stephen Dalton' and carried it the short way back to Sherlock's grave. He dropped it on the bare ground before the stone and continued back to the street.

The street was bare, no cars in sight, and John groaned to no one and began picking his way back up the road. He glanced around, half-hoping to see at least one person, familiar or not, that he could offer a wave to. He flinched when the view around him yielded no such friend. The scenery instead was pale, boring, and bare. Only old buildings loomed over his head, shedding shadows and gloom onto him. These buildings created a border that didn't dare come near the penumbra of the graveyard, so there was a strip of lonely and odd-looking grass that ran between the two worlds; one filled with life and company, the other filled with death and emptiness. Yet, as John crossed the border into the street between buildings, he didn't fit into the life. He belonged in the company of the dead, speaking to the ghosts of the loose souls around him. He didn't belong where there was joy offered to him, for he had no joy to offer, nor did he care to take that joy which was offered to him.

~xxx~

Once he was back at 221b, John regretted it. The flat always gave him a sense of despair. He wanted to give up all hope in life. That's why he went to the pubs. That's why he vacated the flat exactly when he entered it.

So tonight, like ever night, John Watson vacated his own flat to go drink himself into oblivion. The nearest pub, and the most visited by John, was The World's End pub. Once inside, he took a seat at the bar and ordered a Guinness. The bartender, a younger pretty girl, nodded and pulled the tap to present him with a tall glass of beer. He took a huge gulp and sighed. _God, that tastes wonderful, _he thought.

Some sports channel was plastered on the screen above him, and he found himself watching blankly, not even registering who was playing or what the score was or even what sport it was. He'd already had beer that day, so his mind was already pleasantly foggy, but he didn't mind drinking more. After all, it wouldn't do any harm, would it?

~xxx~

Six hours and four glasses of beer later, John was properly woozy. He couldn't see straight, his vision kept blurring, and his brain felt like a scrambled egg. He had watched as the people had poured in and trickled out slowly and had watched with even greater interest as the barista had served each and every customer. Every time she leaned over the counter to hand a glass to a customer, her just-low-enough shirt moved just enough for John to see the side of her breast. He was so drunk that his brain didn't work enough to tell him it was rude to stare, so he found his gaze glued to the small, yet very suggestive patch of skin.

The barista noticed his stare only after most of the customers had left. She leaned over to hand another Margarita to a female customer, obviously on a date, John noticed, and he began to stare. His glass was nearly empty, so when she looked over at him, it was only to ask if he needed a refill, but he took it entirely differently. She noticed his stare and where he was staring, and immediately straightened up. She stepped over, a bit cautious now, and smiled timidly.

'Can I get you another glass?' she asked, almost too quiet for John to hear.

John looked at his glass, then back at her. 'Yes, you can. And I'll take one hot night with the barista as well.' He let the words tumble out, not caring whether or not they made sense.

The girl gave him a half-confused, half-shocked look. 'Excuse me?' She said, this time louder, attracting the attention of her most recent customers.

'You, me, a couple of glasses of wine, maybe a warm bed waiting for us afterwards?' John scooted his glass off to the side and scooted his butt forward on the bar stool, shrinking the distance between him and the girl. 'Whadya say?' He gave her a seductive wink. She stepped back just in time for a taller and broader male employee to stand beside her.

'What's wrong 'Lisha?' He asked.

'This bloke's trying to chat me up,' the barista, 'Lisha, said.

The male bartender turned to John. 'That true?' When John gave a drunken noise as if to say, 'what's it to you?' the bartender rolled up his long black sleeves and clenched his fists, moving around the end of the bar to move to the floor where John was now standing, his empty glass forgotten.

The bartender was _very_ tall. 'Now look,' John slurred. But he never finished his sentence because the bartender grabbed his jumper by the front and pulled him up so his feet didn't touch the floor. He struggled, grasping the bartender's arms, feet waving in the air.

'This'll teach you to chat up my girl,' the bartender practically growled in John's face. He dragged John outside and threw him out the door. 'Don't come back you drunken idiot!' He yelled after him.

'Fuck you!' John yelled back before stumbling away. He felt his way along the walls of the dark street with his hands. He tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and cursed again. He leaned down to press his fingers against the forming bruise. When he looked up, he saw a woman on the other side of the street. She was standing, barely dressed it seemed, like she was waiting for someone. John ducked into the shadow of the building behind him to watch her.

Sure enough, a man passed by the woman and John caught just a glimpse of them trading off something from hand to hand. The woman immediately stuck her hand back in her pocket. The man, still walking away, checked whatever the traded item was. Obviously satisfied, he stuck it in his pocket: drugs.

John remembered the debate he'd had with himself before. He checked the street before crossing and approaching the woman himself. He wasn't familiar with any chatter exchanged between dealers, so he pulled a few rumpled bills out of his pocket and held them out to her. 'How much will this buy?' He stuttered.

The woman glared at him and yanked the money out of his hand. 'Keep your voice down!' she hissed. John looked down in his hand to see a small packet of white powder left in his palm.

He nodded and stuffed the packet in his pocket, beginning to walk away.

'Hey!' The woman's voice caused him to stop and turn around. Her hand was extended, a tenner hanging out of her loose grip. John took the bill back. 'You gave me too much,' she said.

John nodded his thanks and turned again, but she spoke up again. 'And if you ever need any more,' the implication was clear; she was willing to give him whatever he wanted.

John nodded again and turned. The walk back to 221b seemed short and effortless. In no time at all, he was standing in front of the door, trying to remember which pocket he had stuck his key in. Maybe it had been the beer, maybe the exhaustion, John didn't know. He found his key and struggled to hold his hand steady and get the key in the lock. The knob was already really scraped up from his other drunken nights coming home. He returned his key to his pocket and shoved open the door, ignoring Ms. Hudson's chattering from the kitchen. She seemed to be on the phone.

He ascended the stairs. The living room was cold and John pulled his jumper tighter around him. He plopped down in his chair and sat, still and silent. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the packet of what looked like cocaine he had scored from the woman earlier. The packet was small, only about two ounces, and he began to wonder just how much he had paid for it. It must have been a lot if she had given him back some. No matter. He stared at the cocaine for quite a while, debating whether to actually go through with this at all.

Eventually, he decided _what the heck_ and headed to the kitchen. One of his mates from the army had smuggled in a small load of drugs and John had watched him shoot up a couple of times. He grabbed a spoon and a bottle of water from the fridge, which lacked body parts. Usually, John would notice, but this time, he was much too eager to get this over with.

A couple of minutes later, John sat in his chair again, pouring water into a metal spoon with shaky hands, spilling little droplets of the liquid on the carpet. He filled the spoon and pinched a tiny amount of the cocaine into the water. He then took a cotton ball, which he had found in the darkest corners of the cupboards in the bathroom, and soaked up the fluid in the spoon. This was then soaked up by a syringe.

Discarding the cotton ball and spoon, John held up the syringe and squirted out all of the air. He took a moment to look at the foggy liquid and then, without hesitation, loosened the belt he had placed around his right bicep and stuck the needle in the vein on the inside of his elbow. He pulled back, allowing some blood to sneak into the syringe before depressing the plunger and sinking into the chair, barely having enough time to cap the syringe and throw it to the side before the high hit him.

He gasped. Pleasure raced through his body and coursed through his veins. He allowed the feeling to take over his body and mind. It felt amazing, like he could think completely clearly, when just a second ago, he wouldn't have been able to spell his own name if he'd been asked. Now, he could tell you everything you'd ever want to know.

The only lasted around 20 minutes, but when it was over, John collapsed out of exhaustion. He had never felt this way, and he definitely wanted to do it again, but he didn't have the strength.

His eyelids drooped and he fell asleep.

**For added clarity, I have never done drugs, I don't plan to anytime in the future, I have never been to a pub in my life. I cannot legally drink, and therefore never have. Thank you for reading! Reviews are always nice, and please stay tuned for the next installment!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: Maintain Consciousness**

**Fandom: Sherlock BBC**

**All credit goes to Moffat, Gatiss, Benedict, Martin, ACD (of course), and everyone else involved. No copyright infringement intended**

** Warnings for brief mentions of previous drug use.**

Chapter 2

_Lestrade_

_16 hours later (18:00)_

Lestrade burst into the flat, not caring whether or not the door stayed on its hinges. He stomped up the stairs, two at a time, and Sally Donovan followed close behind. The two police burst into the living room of 221b and Lestrade immediately stopped, causing Sally to bump into him. She apologized quietly and stepped to his side. She gasped when she saw John Watson unconscious on the couch.

Lestrade only momentarily paused before crouching down beside John. He felt for a pulse, but it was only faintly there. He looked around to see what could have caused John's unconsciousness and was shocked to see a small baggie lying on the ground beside a syringe and a spoon and an empty bottle of water. He picked up the baggie and when he examined it closely, he saw traces of a thin white powder. _Cocaine_. He motioned for Donovan to call 911 and gathered the implements.

_Molly_

Molly had decided to walk to the morgue today. The sun was out, the clouds had moved aside to let the sun shine through, and there weren't many people out and about, and to make things better, she had slept in today, courtesy of her workmate, who had volunteered to cover her shift. She moved down the empty sidewalk, admiring the shop windows on the way. Across the street, a man sweeping outside of his store looked up to smile at her. She smiled back and stuck her hands in her coat pocket.

As she walked past an alleyway, she heard a quiet 'pst!' and glanced to her right. She saw the shadow of a man in the back corner behind the skip and peered at him, but didn't go any closer. The man leaned out again and whispered, 'pst!' He had leaned out just enough for the light to highlight his eyes, and Molly recognized him. She looked behind her before ducking into the alleyway to join him.

'Sherlock!' Molly was overjoyed to see him. It had been two months since he had stopped by her flat last for some help. She threw her arms around him in a welcoming embrace. He obliged, and had to admit he was slightly glad to see her as well.

'Hello, Molly,' he spoke in hushed tones; by now he was used to hiding and avoiding attention.

'Are you alright?' Molly suddenly realized that he had only ever come to her if he needed help or first aid or something of the sort. She immediately scanned his body for bruises, scars, or injuries. 'Are you hurt?'

Sherlock shook his head, 'No, I'm fine.'

'What do you need?' Molly asked.

Sherlock glanced behind her, just to do a second check that they weren't being followed or listened in on. There might be hidden cameras in the alleyway that Mycroft could see them on, but Sherlock wasn't worried about that. Mycroft already knew he was alive. 'I need you to do a huge favor for me.'

'Anything.' Molly's answer was expected, but completely confident and truthful.

'John's in the hospital.'

'Oh my God, why?' Molly panicked for a second. Her first thought was that Moriarty's network had gotten to him at last.

Sherlock shrugged, hands tucked into the pockets of his unfamiliar and uncomfortable jeans. 'I don't know. I need you to check on him and find out what's going on. He's at Bart's.' He reached up to scratch his head. 'I'll pop in every so often to keep updated.'

Molly nodded. 'I'll do what I can.' Sherlock murmured a faint 'thank you'. Molly studied his face, his posture, and his body. Molly could tell that he was tired and that he'd been working hard to get rid of Moriarty's men. She'd seen some things on the news, some unsolved murder in Prague, or some building fire in America with two or three people trapped (dead, obviously) inside. She had immediately known that it had been Sherlock.

But now she could tell he was run down. She could tell he wasn't getting the nutrition he needed, or the medical attention he needed, as apparent from the oozing and infected scabs on his face and arms. None of them were new, though and she hadn't seen any killings on the news. Maybe he'd been lying low recently. Maybe he'd taken a break. Or maybe he'd been discovered and was keeping his head down until he could continue inconspicuously.

'How are you?' She dared to ask.

Sherlock smiled. 'There are only a few targets left. I've been busy the last two months, searching reports, memorizing maps, travelling light.' He scratched his head again. Molly made a mental note to check for bug bites or infection if she got the chance. Sherlock continued, 'Moriarty's men are tricky to catch, but that's because they are stealthy, not smart. Moriarty was the only really smart person in his network; everyone else was just tough and did exactly what he asked. Well, I guess that's smart.' He giggled and tilted his head when he said that last bit. Molly smiled, admiring the way his exhaustion made him just the tiniest bit giddy.

'You're exhausted.' Molly said flatly. When Sherlock tried to protest, Molly ignored him and dug in her purse for the key to her flat. She held it out to him.

'Molly, I don't need to –'

Molly grabbed his hand and shoved the key inside. She closed his fingers over the key and placed her hand over his own. He kept protesting, but Molly quieted him. 'Just for the night.' He looked annoyed, but finally consented. 'There's pasta in the fridge, there are new sheets on my bed, and there are a couple of cold case files leftover from the last time you dropped by. Just don't leave anything in my fridge that doesn't belong there.'

Sherlock nodded. 'Alright.' He turned her around and steered her out of the alleyway. At the entrance, he let go of her shoulders and pushed her gently in the direction of Bart's.

She turned back. 'Be careful.'

He nodded and Molly watched as he walked in the direction of her flat. She wasn't concerned, well, not about her flat: he had been there many times by himself, but she was concerned about him. He was tired, and she didn't know if that would make him vulnerable. She made sure he was safely down the street before she resumed her own path to Bart's, this time with a different purpose.

~xxx~

'John Watson…' The lady at the front of the desk scanned her computer screen, 'room 206.' She smiled back when Molly thanked her.

Molly headed upstairs, bypassing the elevator on the way. She tried to take the stairs two at a time, but there was an older man in front of her and a few ladies passing by on the other side. She slowed down, a lot, to wait for the ladies to pass before slipping around the slow man and up the rest of the stairs.

Molly quietly pushed open the door to room 206. The lighting was down, but she could still make out a bed with a sleeping John Watson and a chair with a concerned-looking Lestrade sitting in it.

Lestrade stood when she came in and offered her his chair, but Molly shook her head. 'I'm heading downstairs in a few minutes,' she whispered. Lestrade nodded. Molly looked at John. His face was pale and covered in little beads of sweat. His breathing was ragged and his brow was furrowed, as if he was having a nightmare. There was an IV in his arm and an oxygen tube decorated the space just under his nose.

'What happened?' She asked Lestrade.

Lestrade grimaced. 'Drug overdose.'

This shocked Molly. John didn't do drugs. Sherlock had done drugs, not for a while, though, but he had done drugs, but John? John didn't even come close to that kind of thing, right? 'How?'

'We suspect he was drunk last night, given the special occasion, and probably acquired the drugs on a whim and didn't know to regulate his usage. I tried to call him this morning, just to make sure he was okay, and when I called the sixth time and he didn't answer, I got concerned and went over. Donovan and I found him like this. He's been unconscious all day.' Lestrade buried his face in his hands

'What special event?' Molly asked.

Lestrade looked up at her with a look of pity. 'Sherlock died one year ago yesterday.'

_Oh._ Molly swallowed hard and pressed her lips together. So, in reality, Sherlock had cheated death one year ago. She would have to be sure and ask him if he realized that when she got back to her flat.

She checked her watch. 18:22. She needed to get down to the morgue.

'Will you call me and let me know when he wakes up?' Molly asked Lestrade. She received a half-hearted nod in response and sighed before leaving and heading downstairs.

~xxx~

All through work, Molly couldn't focus. She kept thinking of John and his drug overdose. She kept thinking of Sherlock's one-year anniversary of an event that didn't happen. She kept thinking of Lestrade and how upset he looked. She kept thinking of whose fault this was.

If she hadn't dated Jim, he wouldn't have met Sherlock in the first place. He wouldn't have become Sherlock's nemesis. They wouldn't have faced off on the roof. Sherlock wouldn't have jumped. John wouldn't have sunk into depression. Lestrade wouldn't be upset. John wouldn't have overdosed, and most importantly, Sherlock wouldn't have to risk his life and track down every member of Moriarty's network.

This was all her fault.

**Thank you for reading! Please review****!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: Maintain Consciousness**

**Fandom: Sherlock BBC**

**All credit goes to Moffat, Gatiss, Benedict, Martin, ACD (of course), and everyone else involved. No copyright infringement intended**

**Warnings for discussion of previously used drugs, and description of drug effects. **

Chapter 3

_Sherlock_

Sherlock waited at Molly's flat. He knew he'd be waiting a while because she had taken the late shift today, but he didn't mind. He examined her flat closely.

She had obviously changed quite a bit in her flat since the last time he'd been there, but then again, that had been just over two months ago. She had less clutter, Sherlock noted with satisfaction. He'd never been one to clean up after himself (or anyone else for that matter), so he'd limited his possessions to just enough to live off of without dying of boredom, but not enough to feel like clutter.

Sherlock also noticed that Molly's laptop computer had been moved from the desk in her bedroom to the kitchen table. That explained why she'd been gaining weight lately. Her living center was now the kitchen, which obviously resulted in her eating more. He crossed the room and opened her fridge. Surprisingly, it was almost empty. Only a few boxes of leftovers decorated the inside: take-away, then. Sure enough, her trashcan was half-filled with take-away boxes. Sherlock smiled to himself and checked the clock. It was only a little past seven o'clock.

Taking a glance at his ragged attire, Sherlock decided a shower was probably a good idea and headed to Molly's bathroom. He turned on the hot water.

Once there was steam rising out of the shower and into the bathroom, Sherlock shed his jeans, t-shirt, pants, and socks, and stepped into the scorching drizzle, biting back a moan as the hot water slid down his back and arms and splashed around his tired feet.

He wished he could stay like this forever, knowing he didn't have to move, knowing Molly was coming home, knowing that things were okay here in London. Unfortunately, things around the world had not been okay. In California, he'd cut off two arms of Moriarty's network; he'd broken into a library one night to find members of the web conversing and had proceeded to shoot each and every one of them. He'd also blown up a government building that wasn't a government building: it was a headquarters for the web. In Washington D. C., he'd chased around a couple of high-ranking workers for Moriarty and had ended up killing them as well.

Just last week, in Tel Aviv, there had been a huge explosion in another building near the edge of town, sixteen people critically injured, forty-seven dead, leaving Sherlock smiling smugly on the plane to Budapest. Now, he was here, after getting quite beaten up in Budapest and not getting anywhere with destroying the web. He was here, enjoying trivial human pleasures that he didn't have time for, but hell, it felt pretty damn wonderful.

He wanted to stay here, in Molly's flat, where he could hide, and with Molly's help, not be bored. He wanted to stay here where he could watch John without endangering his life. He wanted to feel safe again, like he had when the naivety of childhood had clouded his mind with a false sense of security. He wanted to stay here where Moriarty's network wasn't on his mind and where there were no 'bad guys' or snipers threatening his best friend. He wanted to stay _here_.

He couldn't stay here, but it was nice while it lasted.

He poured some of Molly's shampoo into his hands, wincing at the bright and intoxicating flowery scent, and lathered it in his hair. The suds mixed with the water and ran from his hair down his neck and across his bruise-covered back. He scratched his fingers on his scalp, relieving some of the tension. This time he did moan, relishing the feel and allowing the heat to melt away the knots in his back. The shampoo was washed away and the faucet was turned off. Sherlock allowed the water to completely disappear from the shower before he inhaled deeply and stepped out. He grabbed the nearest towel, probably Molly's, and dried his body, starting at the bottom and working up. When he finally got to his hair, he simply scrubbed his head and then shook the rest of the moisture out. He wrapped the towel around his waist and walked into Molly's bedroom, throwing open the closet.

Molly had been kind enough to store some of Sherlock's clothes in her closet, just in case he needed them when he came over. Now, he chose a pair of black cotton pajama pants and a light-blue t-shirt from the shelf. He appreciated the courtesy, but Molly's taste in men's clothes was sorely lacking.

He nudged off the towel and dressed himself, staying barefoot. Closing the closet, Sherlock glanced around the room. When his sagging eyes settled on the bed, an involuntary yawn rose up and Sherlock gave in. He lay down on the bed, stretching his sore muscles and before his head could hit the pillow, he was asleep.

~xxx~

_Molly_

It was after midnight when Molly returned home. She had been ever so grateful to let her friend take the early shift, but in return, she'd stupidly offered to take his, forgetting he was the late shift. When they labeled the shift _late_, boy, they weren't kidding. She yawned and hung her coat on the coat rack near the door before setting her bag down on the kitchen table. She took a seat and flipped open her laptop, checking to see what was new in her email inbox: nothing. Not that she expected anything, but every so often she would get a surprise 'hello' message from a friend, but not this time.

She closed the device and headed to her bedroom. The door was closed, and Molly twisted the handle. She let out a small squeak when she saw a figure stretched out across her bed. She snuck across the edge of the room, allowing her eyes to adjust, until she mentally smacked herself and remembered Sherlock. Well, that was fine. She was just glad that he was getting some well-deserved sleep.

Although, this meant she'd have to sleep on the couch tonight, which she didn't like having to do. The last time that Sherlock had come to her flat, he had fallen asleep on her bed and Molly had had to sleep on the couch then as well. Her couch, while very comfortable to sit on, was acutely uncomfortable to sleep on. She'd woken up with a huge cramp in her back and a crick in her neck. Though, she had woken up to a hot cup of tea. Maybe that would be the case this time.

She smiled to herself and quietly undressed and pulled on clothes similar to Sherlock's own at the moment. Then she made her way to the living room and lay down on the couch, scrambling and turning over to get comfortable, or at least as much so as possible. When she found a decent spot, she closed her eyes. It was late enough that it didn't take long for her to drift off.

~xxx~

_Lestrade_

Greg Lestrade didn't doubt himself very often, but now he found himself in a rare position. Sherlock had always asked him to make sure John was safe; in fact, one of the last things that Sherlock had asked him to do was to make sure nothing happened to John Watson. He had promised, not knowing that a few slim hours later, Sherlock would jump off of the roof of the hospital, ending his life, and (figuratively) John's as well.

And here, in front of him, John Watson was unconscious, his mind addled by drugs and alcohol. Lestrade had failed Sherlock and he had failed John and now, he doubted himself.

He sat and listened to John's steady, yet raspy breathing, the breathing of a sick man, and blamed himself. It had been his responsibility and his alone to watch John. Ever since Sherlock had died, Lestrade had found himself…less than himself. He wasn't as efficient as before, maybe because Sherlock wasn't there to close cases for him. He wasn't as confident and found himself (not doubting) second-guessing his choices incredibly often. His choices were immature and ill prepared for in his eyes, but only because he was different with Sherlock. Now that Sherlock was gone, he was just a mediocre detective.

Lestrade sighed and propped his head on his fist and listened, eyes closed, to the beeping of John's monitor.

~xxx~

_Molly_

Molly awoke to the sound of the shower. She blinked in the dim light pouring in from the windows that she had forgotten to close last night. Now, she was reaping the consequence. She sat up, wincing at the familiar feeling in her back and her neck. She would have to find out some other way to do this when Sherlock visited.

She stood, rubbing the sore spot in her neck and making her way into the kitchen. There was no hot tea waiting for her this time, but Molly guessed it was because Sherlock was more exhausted than last time. Last time, he'd come from a successful mission in South America. This time, Molly swore she saw the glint of failure still lingering in Sherlock's eyes. Maybe it wasn't a horrible failure, but it had still set him back a bit.

Molly made her own mug of tea and some coffee for Sherlock but she didn't put it into a mug yet, because (known from previous experience) she didn't know how long Sherlock would be. She sat at the table and pushed her laptop aside, drinking her tea and allowing her brain to fully awaken.

Sherlock had been out of the shower for fourteen minutes when he emerged from the bathroom. Molly had known he had gotten out because she had heard him trip over something and had laughed silently at the faint, 'Ow!' that Sherlock emitted. When he came out, he was wearing only the pajama pants from the night before and his hair, though wet, was sticking out in random directions. Without a word to Molly, he headed to the coffee pot and poured himself a mug of black coffee and added two scoops of sugar before joining Molly at the table.

Only once he had finished half of his coffee did he speak. 'Good morning, Molly.'

Molly nodded in response. 'Morning, Sherlock!' She knew she sounded just a bit too chipper for the morning, especially in Sherlock's opinion, but she didn't care.

'How was the couch?'

'Comfortable,' Molly lied, but as soon as it came out, she knew she couldn't get away with it.

'Liar.' Sure enough, Sherlock smirked at her attempt. Molly shrugged. 'Why didn't you sleep in your bed?' Sherlock asked, almost innocently.

Molly laughed. 'Because there was a big oaf hogging up all of the covers.' Sherlock let out a small laugh himself at this. Molly noted that he was in a surprisingly good mood and prepared herself for him to ask a favor. 'Besides, you needed the sleep. I'm not going to plop down on the other side of the bed and wake you up when you're as exhausted as you were.'

'I'm fine!' Sherlock retorted.

'Yes now you're fine, but did you look in the mirror yesterday? You looked like a train wreck!' Molly took a particularly big gulp of tea, burning the back of her throat and choking a little.

Sherlock protested, 'After a shower, I was completely and absolutely fine!'

Molly rolled her eyes. 'No, Sherlock! You were not fine! You –' She was cut off.

'You didn't see me after a shower! I was a new man!' By now, their voices were loud enough to be considered yelling.

Molly noticed this and leaned closer, trying to quiet down, not that anyone would hear them anyway. 'I saw you sprawled across that bed. You were not okay, Sherlock you were like a zombie! I'm surprised you can even make it as long as you do!

Sherlock leaned in as well. 'Molly, let me teach you something I doubt your pathetic little mind can comprehend. My entire being is centered around this.' He pointed at his brain. 'Everything else is transport. This body, this…trivial object is _only_ transport. It doesn't matter. All I need to do is nourish my mind.' He set down his mug. 'All that matters to me is the work! Without that, my brain would rot. And further still –'

He stopped when he saw Molly sniffing. She furrowed her brows. 'Sherlock…are you…wearing my shampoo?' She sniffed again and laughed at his face.

Sherlock stuttered, 'Well, I – no, but – I –' He glared at her. 'You didn't have anything else!'

Molly couldn't help but laugh. 'Sherlock, If you'd texted me, I would have stopped by the store on the way home to get you something else.' She set down her tea mug, being afraid it would end up all over the kitchen table and continued laughing.

'It is not funny.' Sherlock said. Molly could tell he was insecure about having to use her lavender scented shampoo. 'Besides, I liked the smell. It's simple, it's humble, and it's subtle enough that no one notices. And it helps me think. It's a lot like you.'

Molly found herself blushing. She thought she saw a little smile playing on Sherlock's lips, but it vanished before she could be sure.

'Anyway, I want to ask you about John.' Sherlock broke the atmosphere and his face immediately changed expression. 'Why is he in the hospital? What happened to him?'

Molly stared into her mug. She really didn't want to tell Sherlock, knowing he'd probably freak and run to the hospital to see John, but she felt she didn't have a choice. 'He…um…' She wanted to word it carefully. 'He had too much alcohol and…um…a bit more to go with it.' She hoped that was delicate enough that Sherlock got the meaning without actually being effected.

Sherlock didn't need the formalities Molly was offering. 'He got high.'

Molly blinked. 'Yeah, evidently quite a few times.' She inspected Sherlock's face for any sign of discomfort, but couldn't find any. He was as still as a statue. 'Cocaine.' Sherlock was silent. 'No one knows how he could have gotten a hold of it.'

'Easy! The exact same way I used to get them. The exact same way I could still get them. You wander the streets late enough, you'll find someone.' Sherlock didn't stumble over his words, they poured out like it was a deduction. He spoke of the drugs like it was nothing, like it was simply another daily matter.

Molly stared at him. She needed to ask him something, but she didn't want to seem rude or trigger something. 'Sherlock, how often – when was the last time you,' she shrugged, 'you know…'

'Shot up?' Sherlock deadpanned. He wasn't shy about this at all, like Molly had thought he would be. 'Not for a few years now. When Irene faked her death the first time, I had thought about it, but John was there to make sure I didn't.' He steepled his fingers below his nose.

'Irene?' Molly asked. 'Is that that woman you identified by…not her face? And what do you mean the first time? Has she done it again?' She noticed Sherlock wasn't listening. 'Sherlock?'

'He was there for me. Just like I needed to be there for him.'

'Sherlock, this is not your fault. If anything, it's my fault.' Molly tried to persuade him otherwise.

He gave her an astounded look. 'What?' Molly began her last statement again, but Sherlock held up a hand, leaning forward again. 'Molly Hooper, this is _not_ your fault! It was not your fault that Moriarty and I had a confrontation on the roof. It's not your fault that I had to fake my death! This is _not_ even in the slightest bit _your fault_.' He ended with a glare that Molly thought might burn holes into her skull.

'I know, I just can't help but feel the slightest bit responsible for all of this –' Molly said.

Sherlock shook his head. 'No. This is my fault, Molly. This is my fault and _no one else's._'

With that, he excused himself from the table and took his mug to the sink. Molly followed. 'I just can't believe he would turn to drugs like that.'

'I can.' Molly stared in shock at Sherlock. He turned to her. 'The drugs, cocaine specifically, increases your concentration. It clears your mind and heightens your senses. The high, though shorter than preferred, is incredibly euphoric. I'm not surprised at all, though typically people shoot up on cocaine to focus on one particular thing. Back in University, my roommate used to take cocaine before exams, small amounts of course. I just can't figure out what John might have wanted to focus on.'

'Oh.' Molly's eyes fell downward.

'What?'

'Two days ago, when he drank and then…shot up,' she was still sort of uncomfortable saying the phrase, 'one year.' Sherlock gave her a confused look. She responded with a look of pity. 'Sherlock, he wanted to focus on you.'

'Why?' Sherlock set the mug down and turned around, leaning back against the counter. 'Why on Earth would I cross his mind and cause him to ruin not only his life, but his immune system as well?'

Molly gave him an incredulous look this time. 'You really don't know, do you?' Sherlock shook his head, turning his gaze to her for an answer. 'Two days ago was the one year anniversary of your death.'

Sherlock's gaze blanked. He bit his lip nervously. When Molly tried to comfort him by placing her hand on his arm, taken aback at first by the atrophy of the muscle in his upper arm, Sherlock pulled away and vanished into the bathroom. Molly stood back and covered her mouth with her hand.

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	4. Chapter 4

**Title: Maintain Consciousness**

**Fandom: Sherlock BBC**

**All credit goes to Moffat, Gatiss, Benedict, Martin, ACD (of course), and everyone else involved. No copyright infringement intended**

** Warnings for mentions of previously used drugs and a bit of dark!Sherlock and one offensive word.**

Chapter 4

_Sherlock_

Sherlock stayed in the bathroom for a complete ten minutes before he could seriously consider what Molly had told him. One year. He'd already left John for a year. No wonder John was going insane.

He thought of the drugs John had been stupid enough to take. Cocaine was an intense drug, and Sherlock had truly enjoyed the feeling it gave him, that is, until he'd begun to work with Lestrade. The cases had taken over being his drug. It wasn't necessarily the adrenaline rush that accompanied the cases; it was the feeling of thinking in the mind of a killer or a thief. He enjoyed placing himself in the place of a killer especially, because it gave him a controlling feeling. It gave him the perspective of death in a new way. When he investigated a murder, he got to play over the scene in his mind over and over again until it was instinct, what the killer did. He played the part that ended the life. It satisfied his need for superiority that he couldn't experience any other way.

He supposed Anderson was at least minimally right; he was indeed a psychopath.

What he couldn't understand, though, was why John would even think of him ever again after his death. It wasn't as if he had changed John's life at all. He had just given him something else to do, even if that meant John didn't get sleep or food or something that he thought he needed. In all seriousness, he had deprived John of the life he had hoped to lead. John was a simple man who needed a simple job, a simple girlfriend, and a simple little home with a simple little family. Sherlock had stripped him of that opportunity and forced him into a tragic, devastating, and even terrifying environment. In everything Sherlock had done with John, there was always a little fear that John's PTSD would spring up, but it seemed to go away when he was with Sherlock. Anyways, the fear always vanished soon after it became apparent.

Sherlock just didn't understand. Why would John think of the idiot genius that had ruined his life on this particular occasion? Sherlock had thought that after his funeral, John would just throw himself into his work, eventually earning enough money to leave 221b and buy his own flat or house on the edge of London. Obviously, he was wrong, and now John was getting drunk and shooting up? How did it come to this? He wanted, no, he needed to keep an eye on John. He surely couldn't do that, so he'd have to find someone else to do it.

The only people who knew he was alive were Molly and Mycroft, and he was _not_ going to ask Mycroft for anything. _Molly, it is,_ he thought. He didn't know if she would agree, though. She was already giving him a place to stay and food when he needed it. _Hell_, he walked out, _just ask her._

Molly was clearing the dishes from the table when he emerged from the bathroom. She gave him a partly annoyed, partly sad look. He ignored it and stood at the edge of the kitchen, hands stuffed in the pockets of his cumbersome jeans. Molly stopped what she was doing and faced him.

'I need you to keep an eye on John.' Sherlock said. He waited for the 'no', but it didn't come. Instead, Molly simply nodded and didn't say anything. 'Yes?' He was a bit bewildered.

'Yeah, sure.' She was impassive.

'You'll do that for me?'

'No.' She smirked. 'I'll do it for John. I don't exactly owe you anything. In fact, you owe me a lot more than you think, and someday you'll have to pay up, but John needs help, and I'm the only person who honestly knows him well enough to take care of him. I'm not doing it for you.'

'Oh.' Sherlock stumbled, reorienting his brain to the outcome. 'That's great of you. Do you think, though, you could let me in on how he's doing, his doctor's reports, his health status, et cetera?'

Molly laughed. 'Sherlock, even though I work at the hospital, I doubt they'll let me in on all of the information, but yes, I'll get you what I can.' She resumed her previous duties.

Sherlock found himself quite taken aback by her generosity. He was seriously underestimating her. He nodded and turned, heading for the door.

Molly noticed the now-empty space where Sherlock had previous stood and poked her head around the corner to see him pulling on his jacket. 'Where are you going?' She asked, fully stepping around the corner.

'I'm heading out.' Sherlock said, as if it was normal, and in fact it was. Molly should have guessed. Sherlock never stayed for long. He typically only stayed until Molly had given him what he needed. She had been surprised this time when he'd actually stayed for the night. Of course, he'd only waited for her to find out what was wrong with John and had just happened to fall asleep while waiting. Molly found herself smiling at the memory of Sherlock on her bed, sprawled out, mouth slightly open, eyelids closed, breathing softly with just a hint of snoring.

'What?' Sherlock saw the look on her face.

She shook her head. 'Be careful,' she always warned him the same way. 'Don't hesitate to visit.' She also knew he didn't text or call her because of safety precautions. He surely would be back to visit in the hopes of gaining information. That was fine with her.

She watched as Sherlock opened the door and took a step out. He turned back. 'Thank you, Molly.' He nodded, face stoic. Then he walked down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, collar up, and his hair being rumpled just a bit by the wind.

~xxx~

_John_

Water. Rushing. All around him. Waves crashing. Surfs breaking. Rocks. No, sharp rocks. Foam pounding. Sand beneath his feet that feels so fucking good. Cool breeze. Alone. He's alone. It's – cold. Cold water. Drowning. Like…breathless. He can't breathe, that's his problem. There's something rushing through his body. It's euphoric. Now he can't breathe. His throat constricts. His eyes are dry. His stomach squeezes together. His heart pounds in his ears. His throat burns. His skin crawls. He can't breathe. The water pours over the rocks and over him. He is drowning. He can't see. He is alone.

John jolts awake. He can't breathe. He can't see. The lights are bright, and for a second, he imagines that he is actually drowning, but then the light dims and he can hear a faint beeping coming from beside him. There is suddenly a woman by his side. She is comforting him, pushing his shoulders back down onto the bed. She is pretty, like his last girlfriend was. He didn't remember her name. He doesn't actually remember anything. He relaxes into the woman's arms, allowing her to coax him back to sleep. He complies, letting his eyelids droop.

He is alone again.

~xxx~

Six hours later, John woke up again, but this time, he let his eyes adjust first. He could first make out the wall opposite him, plain, nearly white, decorated only with a simple picture of flowers. Then he let his eyes drift to the sides of the room. They were the same color, but these were decorated by a chair on the left and a table on the right. Sitting on the table was a plate of food. John smelled the anesthesia and anesthetic and immediately recognized the hospital surroundings. He became panicked; his breathing became erratic and fast-paced. His eyes darted around, worried, wondering why he could be there.

He heard the beeping become faster and forced himself to calm down. He laid his head back down on the pillow and regulated his breathing. _In, out, in, out._ Steady rhythm. Still, he couldn't stop the eventual checkup by the woman. He studied her clothing and concluded that she was a nurse. She was kind and spoke in hushed tones. John thanked her before she left.

~xxx~

When Molly found out that John was awake, she had excused herself from work to head upstairs to his hospital room. She knocked softly on the door and pushed it open when she heard his voice. He was smiling at her, a tray of hospital food in his lap. His mouth was stuffed and his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. Molly let a small giggle escape her mouth.

'How are you?' She shifted uncomfortably in her lab coat and stood at the edge of his bed.

'I'm good, doing better every minute.' He smiled and choked a bit on the food in his mouth.

'You ready to go home?' John nodded and Molly smiled. 'Well, they said you're doing well and you can go home tomorrow morning.' John smiled bigger and stuffed another bite in his mouth.

When Molly checked her watch, John mumbled, 'you can go back to work. Thanks for coming to see me.'

With that, Molly ducked out. She made her way back down to the morgue, catching the elevator just as someone got out.

She had noticed that John was surprisingly chipper. She wondered why. Maybe he didn't remember what had happened and was just imagining that everything was okay. She hoped he was okay.

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	5. Chapter 5

**Title: Maintain Consciousness**

**Fandom: Sherlock BBC**

**All credit goes to Moffat, Gatiss, Benedict, Martin, ACD (of course), and everyone else involved. No copyright infringement intended**

** Warnings for drug use, sexual activity, strong language, and very brief and minor hallucinations.**

Chapter 5

The next day, bright and early, John was up and ready to get home. He thanked the nurses and doctors who had taken care of him and practically skipped out of the hospital. An employee hailed a taxi for him, which he took all the way to 221b and almost floated up the stairs to his bedroom.

Once inside, John quietly closed the door and leaned up against it. He began to sob. His shoulders quivered, his nose twitched, and his hands clenched as his eyelids desperately tried to keep the pools of liquid from spilling out of his eyes. They failed, of course, and the waterfalls began, slowly at first, a simple orb sliding down his cheek, but then others began leaping out of his eyes, creating rivulets down his cheeks, down his neck, dripping off of his face. He curled up and covered his face with his hands, spreading the rivulets around. Soon they became just puddles spreading out all over his face. He sniffled.

He did remember why he had been in the hospital, and it hurt. He had tried to act as if he had no idea what had happened because he knew he would be embarrassed. He had failed not only himself, but he had failed Sherlock. He had turned to the one thing Sherlock had specifically warned him not to. He had failed.

And the worst part was, John craved it. He had never understood the concept of addiction because he'd never done something so much that it caused him to become addicted, but now, he wanted the drug, he craved the euphoria it sent through his body. He craved the attention of the cocaine. He wanted more.

~xxx~

That's why John Watson found himself across the street from The World's End pub again that night, waiting for the woman he bought from last time. She wasn't there when he showed up, so he waited around, leaning against the wall as not to attract attention.

When the woman did show up, John was falling asleep against the wall, but still awake enough to greet her. She smiled invitingly and asked, 'What can I do for you this time?'

John smiled. 'Same thing.' He pulled a few bills out of his pocket and held them out.

Instead of taking the money, the woman simply looked at him with a sly smile. 'You always gonna give me too much?' She laughed quietly, before glancing around. 'But I know something that would make up for the extra.' Without another word, she took a few steps back and then turned, continuing her walk forward. When she didn't hear John's footsteps following, she turned again. 'You coming?'

John nodded and cautiously followed.

~xxx~

The woman twisted the doorknob of a very small flat and led John inside. The flat was dark, shadows everywhere, cast by the dim lamps and ceiling lights. There was junk everywhere, and John was pretty sure he saw a few cats slinking behind piles of trash. However, this was only in the front room. When they emerged from the front hallway into the kitchen/sitting area, the aura changed. The lights were still dim, but there was no trash sitting around, and there was wine on the coffee table and a shabby blanket spread out across the couch.

John stopped. He hadn't seen this coming, but the woman was insistent. She grabbed his hands and led him to the couch, where she pushed him into a sitting position and went to the bathroom. Shortly thereafter, she reemerged with a box. John strained his neck to try and see what was inside, but she covered it up, not allowing him to see until she got back to the couch. When she did, she uncovered the box to reveal a whole set of implements; syringes, strips of fabric, old credit cards, straws, and about fifty little packets of tinfoil littered the box. John gasped as he looked inside.

'We're not using all of these, are we?' He seemed a bit panicked, but the woman shook her head and laughed.

'No, that would kill us.' She patted his leg, encouraging him to scoot over, which he did, and took a seat beside him. 'And considering you OD'd last time, your first time, that would not be a smart idea.'

So John watched as she took the syringes, six of them, two pieces of fabric, obviously torn from some sort of home linens, maybe pillow-cases or sheets, out of the box as well as six of the foil packets of cocaine. She unwrapped one and John felt his breath hitch as he saw the familiar white powder. The woman looked over at John, silently asking if he was alright.

John wasn't alright, not really. Here he was, sitting in a strange house with a strange woman and this familiar poison at his fingertips. He shouldn't be there. He should be back at 221b, but then again, so should Sherlock. That bastard left him here on his own. On his fucking own. He didn't deserve it. It was Sherlock's fault and Sherlock's burden to bear. Right now, John did hope the bastard was alive so he could watch John suffer and suffer himself.

Though, now, staring down the very bane, the very blight Sherlock feared, John was also afraid. He remembered the feeling, the ownership; he remembered the authority the drug had stolen from him last time. He didn't want to feel the paralyzing freedom the drug offered. He was a soldier. He liked to have physical strength over mental strength. He liked to have the upper hand in a fistfight or in a shooting match. He didn't like the fact that the cocaine gave his mind the freedom to race back and forth, but disabled his body to do so. He needed the movement his muscles brought him, not the open mindedness his drug brought him.

_But he wanted it so fucking badly._

It called to him. So John Watson nodded his agreement to the woman beside him, the still nameless woman, and watched with great interest and anticipation as she mixed the elixir and pulled it up into the syringe. She handed John one of the pieces of fabric and he tied it around his arm; she did the same. Soon after, the six syringes were lying side-by-side, like a firing squad. John's mouth watered.

With a last smile before the rush, the woman picked up one of the syringes and handed it to John. She picked up one for herself and raised it, as if to say. 'cheers'. With that, they both loosened the fabric around their arms and sank the needles into their arms.

The woman depressed the plunger first, breathing heavily in euphoria, but John looked over to see her reaction. He doubted. He doubted himself, he doubted the drug, he doubted Sherlock, damn him. This was his revenge.

He depressed the plunger and his mind thanked him in mantra as the poison rushed into his bloodstream, straight toward his heart.

~xxx~

There was no warning for what the woman did next. She had had her eyes closed when John had injected, but now, she had thrown herself over him, eyes _wide_ open. John groaned as he not only felt her weight thrown on top of him, but against his will, the drug-addled blood rushed south, awakening something dangerous inside of him.

The woman obviously felt it, because she grinned wickedly up at him. John's eyes were surely fully dilated now, half because of the drug, half because of his arousal. He had read somewhere in med school that cocaine heightened sexual arousal, but had doubted it. Until now.

Now, he fully believed the fact, and scooted back as to prop himself against the arm of the couch, taking the woman with him. She showed her approval by grinding down against him, eliciting a pleasured moan from John, who threw his head back as the woman began fumbling with his belt buckle. His mind was racing about, yelling, screaming, murderously determined to escape the cage placed around it.

All that John could consciously think of doing was reaching his hands up to palm the woman's breasts through her shirt, causing her hands to hesitate and her mouth to open in a breathy moan.

The whole affair didn't last long in John's mind: the woman, still nameless, did all the work, pulling his trousers down and pulling his erection out, grinning seductively. Her suggestively short shorts were easily rid of and John immediately found himself surrounded by blinding warmth. He didn't have time to enjoy the heat before she started moving as John watched, high and awestruck.

Before long, John felt his stomach coil and the woman's occasional moans turned into high-pitched squeaks, and as she threw her head back in utter ecstasy, John came, drenched in sweat, both his and hers, and her body collapsed on his.

The rest of the night went similarly, with every shot of cocaine, there were a few moments of sex, sometimes speaking, but at the end of their encounter, John was lying naked, shivering with withdrawal, with a correspondingly naked woman, still nameless, laid out beside him, asleep. John could not go to sleep, haunted by the taunts of the cocaine, wondering what to do now.

~xxx~

_Twelve hours later_

_Molly_

Molly had called John's cell phone six times, anxious to see how he was doing, but he hadn't answered. After the third call, she had given up on leaving him voicemails. Now, she was standing in front of the flat, staring up at his window, hoping he was alright.

The door swung open, and Molly was anticipating John's face, but instead Ms. Hudson's kind smile appeared in the doorway. Molly smiled back and quietly asked if she could come in to see John.

'Sure, dear.' Ms. Hudson replied, 'But I doubt you'll get much out of him. He's been sleeping all day.' Molly nodded her thanks and headed upstairs.

Immediately, she knew something was wrong. The flat was a mess, well, at least a mess by John's standards. He had told her once that he had been the neatest person in the army, but right now, that was not looking plausible. There were papers strewn everywhere, books lying open on the table, and John was nowhere to be seen. Molly's first thought was a break-in, but there were no other signs to support that conclusion. She tiptoed through the clutter on the ground and headed up the second flight of stairs to John's bedroom. The door was closed, so she knocked.

'John?' She whispered, not wanting to wake him.

'Yeah?' His tired voice reached through the door and greeted her. She opened the door a crack to see a _very_ tired looking John sitting upright on his bed, covered strewn all over, shirtless. She looked away out of courtesy, but soon directed her attention back to him. He looked exhausted and confused, his eyes boring holes into hers, as if to say, _'why are you here?'_

'I just wanted to check up on you, you know,' The situation was uncomfortable, John had a very suspicious look on his face, and immediately, Molly wanted to leave. 'I wanted to see if you needed anything.'

John shook his head, face still contorted with uncertainty. 'I'm fine, thank you.'

Molly nodded and looked around at the room there were clothes tossed in the corner. She wanted to ask him why, but when she looked up and saw a flash of panic in John's eyes she began backing out of the room. However, she stopped when she heard the sound of a gun being cocked.

She stopped immediately, not daring to turn around, until John's harsh and bold voice called her attention, 'Turn around.' She obliged, not wanting to test him. He did, after all, have a gun in his hand. 'Really,' he said, 'why are you here?'

Molly stuttered. 'I-I just wanted to-I needed to check up on you.'

'No, really.' John rose to his knees on the bed, then to his feet and walked from the middle of the bed to the edge and jumped off, gun still trained on her. 'Why would you take time to come see me?'

Molly was confused. He didn't believe her? 'John. I'm telling the truth.'

She fell against the wall as John straightened out his arm with the gun and walked toward him. 'I don't believe you. Tell me why I should believe you. For all I know, you could be trying to steal Sherlock's violin, or his skull, or his science equipment.'

'Why would I want those things?' Molly's voice was high pitched and scared. Her eyes reflected that fear.

'Because you're an intruder! You're a member of Moriarty's web! I know you are! I've seen you, watching me from afar, spying on me. You're trying to get information.' He waved the gun wildly in her direction. 'Well, now I know. And I've got you!'

'Truly, John. It's me, Molly. I needed to make sure you were okay after your hospital trip…' She trailed off as John blinked. He blinked several times and his face wrinkled again in bewilderment. He glanced down at the gun in his hands and his hand loosened before the gun fell to the floor. He looked back at Molly, the panic in his expression became undisguised.

He fell back on the bed. 'Molly?' His voice came out in a whisper. 'Molly, I'm so sorry.' He bent his head into his hands and began to cry.

Molly was too scared to say anything. She simply gave John a scared look and ran out the door. She didn't even stop to say goodbye to Ms. Hudson, she just ran straight out the door, determined to get as far away from John as she possibly could.

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	6. Chapter 6

**Title: Maintain Consciousness**

**Fandom: Sherlock BBC**

**All credit goes to Moffat, Gatiss, Benedict, Martin, ACD (of course), and everyone else involved. No copyright infringement intended**

Chapter 6

_Molly_

Molly sat in her flat that afternoon, thinking about John. She was definitely worried now, nothing like that had ever happened to him, let alone to her. She wondered if this was a result of his OD earlier that week. It had been known for drug-addicts to have hallucinations, and after John's OD; he might as well be an addict. He'd consumed enough cocaine.

Her mobile buzzed on the table next to her.

_Stopping by tonight. Could you get some shampoo for me? SH_

Molly had to smile. She stood to stretch and head to the store. Her phone buzzed again.

_Please_

Now, she let a small laugh out. Without typing a reply, she grabbed her coat and slipped on her shoes and headed out the door. The store was only down the block from her house, so she decided a walk would be good for her. She pulled her coat tighter around her and stuffed her hands in her pockets.

As she began walking, a taxicab pulled up to the sidewalk beside her. She turned to say 'no thank you' because she thought the driver was to offer her a ride, but stopped herself when she saw John Watson lean over the seat and pay the driver. She started walking again, quicker this time, to avoid having to speak to him. He hopped out and Molly could hear the patting of his feet on the pavement and the murmur of the cab's engine as it drove away.

'Molly!' John yelled after her. He was still a little ways away and Molly ignored him. 'Molly!' He called again. This time, he was closer. He had run from the cab, and Molly slowed down. There was no use in trying to stay away from him. Pretty soon, he came up beside her, panting a little, and walked with her. When she looked down at her own feet, she noticed his gait had changed. He was limping on his right foot again.

'Molly,' he breathed, 'I'm terribly sorry for what happened this morning.'

Molly looked over to see that his face did show remorse. She nodded. 'Apology accepted.'

'Does that mean I'm forgiven?' John asked, a little quieter.

'No.' Molly said. She looked forward and quickened her pace, just the slightest bit. She wanted to show him she wasn't really interested in talking and she was nearing the store anyway, and didn't want him to question her getting men's shampoo.

'Good.' John said. This answer caught Molly off guard, but she didn't show it. 'I don't want you to,' he continued. 'I am sorry, though. I don't know what got into me. I guess I just wasn't myself.'

'You didn't seem like it.'

'No, I didn't, did I?' He sighed. 'I must have frightened you with the gun. I am sorry, I am. I am sorry, Molly. It will never happen again. I don't know how I didn't recognize you, I don't know why my brain couldn't process who you were at first. I just…I don't know.' He trailed off at the end.

They approached the store, and Molly continued walking, heading inside, and John followed, annoying Molly quite a bit. He obviously didn't realize she was busy and this wasn't a good time for her to return to the events of the morning. 'John, it's okay,' was the only response she could muster to try and nudge him away for a final time.

'No, it's not okay. I could have seriously hurt you.' He put a hand on her shoulder, but pulled back when she visibly shrank away from his touch. He looked like he was about to cry, but straightened up. 'Anyway, I would like to make it up to you by taking you to dinner Friday night. It's your choice as to where we go. If you're uncertain, say no. I won't be hurt.'

Molly faced him, grabbing a small, hand-held basket by the door. She licked her lips in thought and said, 'I don't know, John,' before heading through the aisles. She started picking random things off the shelves to make it look like she was there for other things and to kill time until he left.

'At least think about it, would you?' John said, sounding just the tiniest bit desperate.

Molly could tell he was sorry and wanted to make it up to her, and she felt just a little bit sorry for him as well. 'Okay, I'll think about it.' His face lit up. 'However, if you show any signs of what happened this morning repeating, I won't hesitate to leave you wherever we are.' John looked positively thrilled as they reached the shampoo aisle. Molly stopped, waiting for him to leave, hoping that was the next step. 'I said I'd think about it. It's not a yes yet.'

John nodded. 'Thank you Molly! I promise I'll be on my best behavior, and you won't regret giving me a second chance.' With that, finally, he turned and limped away, leaving Molly a bit stunned and overwhelmed. She didn't know if she wanted to go to dinner with him. He had almost killed her after all. He didn't really deserve a second chance, but Molly was willing to offer him a little room. It was just that dinner seemed a little far for the circumstances.

Waving the dinner issue away for a little bit, she proceeded down the aisle and looked through the men's shampoo to find one for Sherlock.

Eventually, she passed up all of the deliciously scented ones and settled for a plain, water-scented one she hoped Sherlock would appreciate. Why would anyone even make _water-scented shampoo?_ Molly was flabbergasted.

With a basket full of Sherlock's shampoo and a bunch of other things she didn't need, but didn't want to put back, she proceeded to the checkout.

~xxx~

When Molly finally returned to her flat, two hours later, her arms were weighed down with the before mentioned 'supplies'; both needed and unneeded, a bag of takeout so that she didn't have to cook for Sherlock, a bouquet of flowers she'd spotted in the window of the florist and had indulged in, and a newspaper. The newspaper was for Sherlock because it hosted the story of a recent murder in London, still unsolved, which Sherlock might like.

Speak of the devil, as Molly approached her door, she could see his tall figure lurking in the shadows of evening beside her flat. He noticed her, but made no move to help as she struggled to reach her keys and to open the door to her flat; that was Sherlock. He did, however, hold the door open so she could squeeze the bags through the doorframe and carry them to the kitchen. As soon as she put the bags down, she could feel him pull her coat down and off her arms. She allowed him to take it, grateful for at least some help.

She headed to the restroom to relieve herself, and Sherlock hung up her coat. When she emerged again, Sherlock was rummaging through the bags from the store.

'So you ran into John in the store today?' He asked without turning around to see her. 'I asked you a moment ago; you never answered.'

Molly sighed a rubbed her forehead before sitting at the table, facing Sherlock. 'I was preoccupied. You're not my only focus.' That earned a sideways glance. 'How did you know I ran into someone?' She immediately reprimanded herself for asking. This was an opportunity she didn't want to give him, the opportunity to deduce something after so long without the chance.

Still, he was unstoppable: 'Well, obviously you ran into someone you were talking to, or who was talking to you, you spent a while in the store; that much is apparent from the number of items you brought back. I can tell you weren't really paying attention to what you were picking up from the shelves, I mean, canned sardines, Molly? Really?' This was accompanied by a disapproving look. Molly groaned and dropped her head into her folded arms. He went on: 'It seems as if you didn't want them to see you buying men's shampoo, so it couldn't have been just anyone; if it was a love interest, or even just a colleague or friend, you would have paid attention to what you were grabbing; people are so worried about leaving bad impressions on their friends, so this was obviously someone you knew well. Not Lestrade, I can tell from this newspaper he's been busy lately. Not Mrs. Hudson, you received my text just over two hours ago. You would have been gone quite a bit longer if you ran into Mrs. Hudson. So that could only mean –' His voice broke. He looked over at her. She had lifted her head. 'How is he?'

Molly stood and joined him on the other side of the kitchen. 'He's…struggling.' She was hesitant to tell him, but he needed to know. 'He almost shot me this morning.' At Sherlock's shocked face, she held up her hands to calm him. 'No, no, he didn't recognize me! He didn't hurt he at all, he just didn't recognize me. I went to his flat because he wasn't answering his phone.' She ran over the events of that morning. 'He asked me to dinner on Friday to make up for it.'

'Will that make up for it?' Sherlock was talking about John, his best friend, but John _had_ almost shot Molly, and his protective side came out in the growly texture of his voice.

'No, but that way I can talk to him about what's going on. I haven't said yes yet, but I'm thinking I could invite Greg along just to sit by and keep an eye on us. I've been thinking ever since he asked me. It would be a good way to get information for you.'

Sherlock thought for a second. 'I'm not sure, Molly. He doesn't seem to be stable, and if he has a hallucination again, you may not make it out alive.' He started another sentence, but Molly stopped him short.

'I can handle it. If Greg is there, I'll be okay. He will make sure John doesn't do anything to harm me. I'll tell him what happened tomorrow and ask him to come along.'

Sherlock still seemed hesitant, but he nodded. 'I trust Lestrade. Alright, you can go, but be incredibly careful. Unfortunately, last trip, as you know, didn't go well and I don't know if anyone has followed me here to London. John may not be the only person who may try to kill you.' He took a deep breath and grabbed the men's shampoo. He scoffed, 'Water-scented?'

Molly laughed. 'Yeah, but everything else was, as you would say, 'tedious and unnecessary scents'. That was the only normal one.'

He smirked and flipped the bottle in his hand. 'I'm going to take a shower.'

When he began to leave, Molly grabbed him and pulled him over to the table, sitting him down and trading the shampoo for a fork in his hand. She shoved a box of takeout in front of him. 'Not until you eat something.'

Sherlock groaned, but consented. After he had finished a fourth of the box and refused to eat anymore, Molly allowed him to get up to shower. When he was finished, she was sitting in the living room, reading. The newspaper was waiting for him on the couch next to her. He grabbed it and plopped down beside her.

Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, Molly lowered her book, and with a smile trying to form on her face, she leaned over for a whiff of his hair. When he jumped and pulled away with a confused look, she laughed. 'Water-scented…'

**Sincerest apologies to everyone! I went on vacation in Hawaii and there was NO WIFI ANYWHERE! I am so sorry for the wait, but to reward you all, here is a chapter with Sherlock. Happy birthday!**

**Thank you for reading, and PLEEEEEASE leave reviews with your advice or appreciation! PLEEEEEASE!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: Maintain Consciousness**

**Fandom: Sherlock BBC**

**All credit goes to Moffat, Gatiss, Benedict, Martin, ACD (of course), and everyone else involved. No copyright infringement intended**

**Warnings for slight hallucinations and one offensive word**

Chapter 7

When Molly woke the next morning, Sherlock was gone. She had expected him to be, but it was always quite a bit disappointing never to find him. She carried out her daily duties; breakfast comprised of tea and a bagel with cream cheese, work consisted of…well…working with dead people.

Dead people were a lot easier to deal with than regular people for one simple reason: they couldn't respond. Molly often found herself talking aloud down in the morgue, knowing that no one would hear her, and no one would judge her. So many times, she'd found herself talking about another failed attempt at asking Sherlock on a date. Now, she found herself talking about John.

'I'm worried about him.' She'd mutter to the cold, stiff body on the table. 'He's so different without Sherlock. I guess I never really looked at him.' She sighed and picked up the clipboard to jot notes down; _Buster Colley_, the name read. She let out a little laugh. 'You know Buster? I always thought it was a good thing for John to move in with Sherlock. I thought Sherlock needed John, but now I see that John needs Sherlock just as much.' Buster remained still.

'Maybe that's why they met. Destiny pulled them together, not because Sherlock needed someone to balance him out, but because John needed someone to love…' She trailed off. Maybe that's why John asked her out on a date, because he wanted her to love him now that Sherlock was gone.

She shook her head and moved on to the next body. 'I really shouldn't be going on this date!' She exclaimed to _Heather Richards._ 'He tried to kill me! There's nothing guaranteeing that he won't have another hallucination and do it again! Even though Greg will be there, I may be in danger.' _Maybe Sherlock was right._

Heather remained motionless, just like Buster. Molly did not, however. She continued talking and began to pace, preaching her fears and concerns to a (literally) dead audience. 'But he needs me! After the incident where he ended up in the hospital, _he_ could be in danger. It's my responsibility to make sure nothing happens to him. I don't think Sherlock would ever forgive me if something were to happen to John.' She was frantic now. 'What do I do Heather? Do I obey Sherlock and risk pushing John into further depression or do I risk my own safety and go with John?'

Molly didn't know even in the slightest what her response would be, but in the end, she consented and called John to let him know.

'Hello?' John sounded sleepy. He'd probably been taking a nap.

'Sorry John! It's me, Molly…'

'Molly!' The tone in his voice changed immediately, not to happy, not to excited, but to hopeful. Molly tried to continue.

'I was calling about…about Friday…you asked me to join you for dinner.'

'Yes?'

Molly took a deep breath. 'I would love to join you.' She could hear him trying to hold back his excitement in a litany of 'thank you's. 'However,' she said, causing him to pause, 'I require Greg to come along and supervise…just so we can be sure that you don't – that I don't – that everything's alright.'

There was a hint less excitement, but John was still practically radiating happiness through the phone. 'Of course! I completely understand! Thank you Molly, for another chance.' He hung up. Molly sat down in a chair on the edge of the morgue. Her brow was wrinkled in confusion and hesitation. She still was nervous, and not one hundred percent sure about this outing.

She finished up with the bodies on her list and headed home. She would call Greg on the way and ask if he could come along. The phone didn't ring at all, just clicked right over to voicemail.

'Hi Greg, it's Molly. Listen, John asked me to dinner on Friday night, but there was an…incident at his flat a few days ago. I mean, you don't have to, but I'm a bit nervous about being alone with him after what happened, so do you think…you don't have to, but do you think you could come and…supervise? I mean, sit by the bar, and just make sure nothing…out of the ordinary happens? Give me a call back. I know it's short notice and it's late already, but just let me know. Okay, see you later!'

She tried to sound chipper in her message, but it was difficult to think about the incident without shivering and becoming more aware of her surroundings. It was late, and it was starting to get dark out. The streets were clearing out quite a bit more and the shadows seemed to reach out to grab her. She knew thinking like that was silly and childish, but the way the wind whistled across the walls of the buildings lining the streets gave her an eerie feeling.

She made herself chuckle a little, though, thinking that this would be Sherlock's opportune moment to jump out and grab her. She walked a little quicker and a little more confidently, knowing she might get to see Sherlock tonight.

But she didn't. By the time she had reached her own flat again, her shoulders had drooped again and she was discouraged by not seeing Sherlock. She entered her flat, half-hoping he would be there, waiting for her on the couch, but he wasn't.

She sighed and went through her nightly routine, shower, eat dinner (pasta, again), read until around eleven o' clock, bedtime. Sherlock still hadn't come and knocked on her door. She fell asleep, still hoping he'd come soon.

But he didn't

~xxx~

Friday came quickly, even though Molly found herself dreading the outing even more. She refused to call it a date; it was just John taking her out for dinner to apologize. Plus, Greg would be there. It couldn't be a date if Greg was there.

She allowed herself to get dressed up nicely. It had been a while since anyone had taken her out to dinner and she was a little excited about getting to wear a gorgeous dress she'd picked out a few months ago in the hopes that her lack of dates would change soon. The dress was a short, sleeveless, red, and slightly tight fitting dress, with a black bow on the back. To go with it, she had a black clutch with a similar black bow just above the clasp, and black heels that she feared she'd fall over in the moment she stood up.

John arrived right on time, and knocked politely on the door of her flat. When she opened the door, he gasped, his jaw dropping. 'My God, Molly, you look _amazing_!'

She blushed a little. 'You don't look too bad yourself.'

It was true. John wore a full three-piece suit, black slacks, black jacket, and a crisp white shirt, complete with a bowtie. His shoes were newly shined. In his right hand, he held a pink corsage. He held it out to her with a small bow. Molly giggled and took the corsage. She stepped out of her door, wavering the slightest bit on her heels, and turned to lock the door.

Then she followed John to the cab and thanked him when he opened the door for her. She slid in and was followed by John. The drive was mostly silent; there was no need to speak, but Molly felt a bit uncomfortable. They would be alone all night.

Greg had never called Molly back, and he didn't know where dinner was (Molly didn't either), so he couldn't join them at the restaurant. Molly didn't want to be alone with John. She was willing to give him a second chance, but she wasn't comfortable with being alone with him. However, he behaved like a gentleman by taking her hand to help her out of the cab, and by opening the door for her, and by pulling out her chair at the table.

The server came by to ask for their drinks; they both ordered glasses of wine. He left to get their drinks, shortly after pointing out some special dishes on the menu. Both Molly and John picked up their menus, but Molly couldn't focus very well. She got a good look of the restaurant around them.

The walls were a dark crimson on top and a cream on the bottom, highlighted by lights hanging throughout the restaurant. There were people all around; obviously this was a pretty popular place to eat, especially on dates. Molly shifted a bit. The tables were black, as were the chairs. The bar was located behind Molly's seat, as was the door. It was a nice restaurant, and Molly felt herself ease up a little bit. The table was big enough for her to be at a reasonable distance from John.

There was a period of silence before John cleared his throat. 'What are you looking at?'

Molly paused. Did he know she was looking for exits and places to run to? 'Just looking at the restaurant. I've never been here before.'

John chuckled. 'No, I meant food-wise. Anything sounding particularly good?' He smiled at her.

Molly quickly glanced down at the menu, partly to stop looking at his smile. It was too kind of a smile. She didn't want to let her guard down. 'The Parmesan Crusted Chicken sounds good.' She said the first dish she saw, but after reading the description she knew it was what she wanted.

John looked at the dish himself. 'It does look good!' He licked his lips and looked back up at Molly, 'but I think I'm getting the Garlic Butter Steak.'

Molly nodded as the server returned with their drinks. He asked for their order, which they placed, and promised to be right back with their food. He took their menus and lit the candle in the middle of the table. Molly watched John's face as the candle was lit. He seemed sad, almost nostalgic. He gazed into the candle with his brows furrowed and his smile disappeared, replaced by a regretful look. Molly could only guess it had to do with Sherlock.

'Are you alright?' She asked him, leaning forward a little to get his attention.

John jumped in response, his sadness gone, his face completely changed. 'Yeah! I'm fine. Just a bit worn out is all.' He offered a half-hearted smile. 'I'm fine, though.'

Molly nodded and leaned back a little and folded her hands in her lap. There was another pause.

'How's work going?' John asked.

'Good.' That was the only reply Molly could muster, until she remembered a peculiar occurrence at work a few days ago. 'Although, there was something strange I noticed a few days ago. A man was brought in, 36 years of age, and dead from a heart attack. A bit young for it, don't you think?'

John nodded, his brow furrowed again, but this time in interest. 'Yes, it is.' He leaned forward. 'Anything else…_off_… about it?'

Molly shook her head. 'I don't know. I didn't spend that much time on him. If the police think anything of it, they would come and ask to see his body, but I didn't think anything of it.'

Very quietly, John responded, 'Sherlock would have seen it right away…' He trailed off, the nostalgic look coming back on his face.

Molly tried to get his attention off of Sherlock. 'Anyway, nothing else has been weird at work.' She swallowed, as John's face grew darker. 'What about you?'

He looked up, 'What?'

'Anything interesting at work?'

John shook his head. 'I don't work at the surgery anymore. After Sherlock…after the incident, Mycroft offered to pay for the rent and anything I might need until I was able to work again.' He chuckled, 'So dinner's on him.' Molly laughed at that.

The server arrived with their food and they began to eat, their banter dying down for a bit. They joked through dinner, nothing more than lighthearted talk. They were both obviously uncomfortable with the situation.

After they had finished their food, John looked around. 'Where's Greg?'

Molly shrugged. 'I called on Monday, but he didn't answer…'

'Aren't you nervous?' Molly tilted her head. 'About being alone with me, I mean.' He sounded sincerely sorry.

'I don't know…' Molly replied. She was not so certain about her feelings. 'What happened was very frightening for me.' John seemed to shrink back in his seat, and he looked as if he was contemplating saying something. 'I didn't know what to do. You pulled a gun on _me_. Of all people, I should be the one you recognize –'

John jumped in, his voice quiet, but intense. 'Molly, I think it's the PTSD.'

Molly stuttered, 'W – what?'

'It's the PTSD that's causing this. That's why they're after me.'

Molly's heart sank. Someone was after John? 'Who? Who's after you?'

John looked around before answering. 'Moriarty's web; they've been following me everywhere since the incident. They know about my history in the army, so they're following me around, trying to get information about the government and about Sherlock!' His eyes were wide now, almost insane-looking.

Molly didn't know what to say. She stuttered around for the right words. 'John, that's not…I don't think that's possible…I mean it can't be possible.'

John laughed. 'Yeah, how do you know? Are you working with them?'

Molly's heart beat faster. Was it happening again? Should she scream? Maybe one of the other people would notice what was happening. She scooted closer to the edge of the bench and prepared to run if this got any worse. 'No, I'm not working for them, I just know because Sheer –' She had to cut herself off, but didn't have anything to cover it up with.

'Yeah. You don't have an answer. Because I bet you _are _working for them.' He squeezed his hands into fists on top of the table. 'How much are they paying you to spy on me?'

'Nothing!' Molly exclaimed, trying to stay quiet as not to disturb the others around her. She could do this. 'No one is paying me anything, John! I know because Sherlock assured me that the web would fall apart after Moriarty's death! There is no one to keep the organization together, so it's falling apart, bit by bit.'

John's face blanked. 'Sh – Sherlock?' He blinked a few times. 'Sherlock? How did he know Moriarty would die?'

Molly cleared her throat. She had to straighten this all out so that he wouldn't ask any questions later. 'He knew what was going to happen. He knew he had to die, so he came and spoke to me. He told me he was planning on making Moriarty have to kill himself as well. What he didn't plan on was having to jump himself. But he did, so there must have been some reason.' She waited for the response.

John looked down at the table. 'They were going to kill me, weren't they?' Tears began to form in his eyes. 'They were going to kill me and Sherlock jumped off of the rooftop to save my fucking worthless life.' He placed his head in his hands.

Molly tried to comfort him, but he wouldn't listen. 'It's all my fault that he's dead…' He began crying softly. Molly looked around and when she didn't see a server, she reached into her purse and pulled out some money and left it on the table. She pulled John out of his seat and guided him to the door, thanking the hostess. Once they were outside, she hailed a cab and held the door open for John. He was basically reduced to a sobbing mess by the time they reached 221b. Molly had to walk him into the flat and up the stairs. He sat in his chair and Molly headed back for the door.

'Please stay with me.' His voice was soft, almost a whisper.

Molly turned back around. In her mind, there was a battle going on with one side begging her to stay and the other side begging her to leave without a second glance, but her heart begged her to stay.

She consented and crossed the room to sit in what she suspected was Sherlock's old chair.

'Okay,' she whispered. 'I'll stay.'

**So sorry it took so long. We sold our house, so everything's been pretty hectic! Thank you all for reading! Please review: it keeps me writing!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Title: Maintain Consciousness**

**Fandom: Sherlock BBC**

**All credit goes to Moffat, Gatiss, Benedict, Martin, ACD (of course), and everyone else involved. No copyright infringement intended**

**Warnings for extremely brief mention of drugs at the very end of the chapter**

Chapter 8

The next morning, Molly woke before John did. She checked the clock to make sure she wasn't late for work, then headed to the kitchen to see if she could make him some breakfast before she headed out. In the refrigerator, there were eggs, milk, and cheese. _Omelets it is, then._

She set to work cracking eggs and mixing them with cheese. She had no doubt John didn't eat very often at the flat, so maybe omelets were all he ever made. She began pouring some of the eggs into the skillet when John walked in, yawning.

'Sorry!' Molly said. 'I didn't mean to wake you.' She grabbed the milk and found two glasses, filling them both halfway.

'No, you didn't. I need to get up. Been sleeping way too much lately.' John replied with a soft chuckle. There was a pause as Molly flipped over one omelet and then shifted it onto a plate, then started on another. She handed the first one to John. 'Thanks,' he grabbed a fork and then sat down at the table (clear of any experiments), and turned back to her. 'Last night was fun.'

Molly nodded. 'It was.'

'We should do it again sometime.'

Without thinking, Molly nodded. 'Yes, we should.' When she did think about what she had just said, she slapped herself mentally. She didn't want to do that again; it was unnerving!

But the more she thought about it, the more she realized that other than his little paranoid moment, the date – outing…had been alright. She would actually like to try again. Maybe this could be like therapy for John. He could become stronger than he had been since Sherlock's 'death'.

~xxx~

By the next day, John was definitely looking better. He still had dark circles under his eyes and didn't quite stand up straight when he walked, but his eyes were brighter, and he wore a smile. He came to see Molly at the hospital and asked if she wanted to grab dinner that night. Molly agreed. She was still guarded, but very happy to see John was making progress.

They met that night at a small café near the hospital after Molly had finished at work. The conversation was lighthearted and short, but they had fun. Afterwards, they decided to walk back to Molly's flat. When they arrived, John stopped and cleared his throat.

'Thank you for coming tonight, Molly.' He said quietly, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. He had dressed casually, and for that Molly was thankful; she was still in the clothes she'd worked in. 'I know you still don't completely trust me again, and you have the right not to, but it's really helpful for someone like me.'

Molly grinned and shuffled her feet a bit. 'It's really not a big deal, John. I –'

'It _is_ a big deal.' John cut her off. 'Because now I know I can trust you. You may not trust me, but I completely trust you because you have proven yourself to me. Thank you.' He looked directly in her eyes, and in that second, Molly wished he'd kiss her. She didn't know why, but she wanted him to kiss her.

But he didn't. He simply hugged her and whispered, 'thank you,' again before heading back in the direction of his own flat, leaving Molly alone.

~xxx~

The outings continued like that, with John dropping by and offering dinner, then the two meeting after Molly was finished working. The conversation was typically the same, superficial and lighthearted. John never came into Molly's flat and never invited her to his. He always looked tired, sometimes more than others, but Molly didn't take notice of it until two weeks after their first outing.

When John came into her work that morning, he looked exhausted, or more than usual. He tried to smile when he hugged her, but it was a huge effort.

'Are you okay?' was the first question Molly asked. She kept her hands on his shoulders and held him at arms' distance. John refused to make eye contact with her. She placed her right hand under his chin and pulled his face up to look in his eyes. She stopped when she saw the tears in his eyes, trying to tumble over the edge. 'John, what's wrong?'

John tore his face from her grasp and shrugged. 'I just needed to make sure you were okay.' He ran his fingers through his hair and leaned up against the closest counter. 'Moriarty's web has been following me again. I received a threatening note this morning saying you would be harmed if I didn't stop tracking them.'

Molly backed away. 'They're still after you? Can I see the note?' She wasn't exactly sure what was going on, but Sherlock had assured her that Moriarty's web had collapsed and been 'taken care of' when he died.

John stuttered, 'It's back – back at my flat, but I don't think you should come. They might be watching – er, waiting for you to come.' He headed to the door. 'You stay here. I'll get it and bring it back.'

Molly rushed after him and kept following as he walked out of the door and toward the elevator. 'No, I'm not staying here.'

'Why?' John asked. He pressed the button on the elevator.

Molly opened her mouth to speak, but the elevator opened and a woman walked out. John and Molly entered the elevator before Molly said anything. 'I think it might be someone messing with you.'

John turned to her. 'Like who? And how would you know?'

'I don't know, like Anderson? And like I told you, Sherlock talked to me before he died. He assured me the web would fall apart.'

'He died, Molly.' John said bluntly. 'He couldn't possibly have known what's happening now.' The elevator opened again, and they exited.

Molly was taken aback. 'No, he is a genius, and yes, he does know what's happening now –'

John turned quickly, startling Molly. He pointed at her. 'You said 'does'. Present tense. What's that supposed to mean? Do you know something I don't? Is he alive? Have you been hiding him?' He turned around and continued walking.

Molly didn't know what to say, so she didn't. She just followed him out of the hospital and into a cab. The drive was silent. When they arrived at 221b, John unlocked an almost threw open the door. Molly followed him up the stairs and into the sitting room. When she entered, he had already begun throwing papers around, looking around frantically.

'Where is it?' He exclaimed. 'Where is the note? I left it right here!' He rushed around the room, searching through everything. 'They stole it, Molly.'

Molly just stood back, watching him lose his mind. She kept having little flashbacks of the night where John had tried to shoot her. This was almost the same. 'John.' She took a step toward him, hesitating when he whipped around, his eyes wild. 'John, calm down. Sit down.'

With a now-blank face, John did as she said and sat in his chair. Molly kneeled in front of him. 'Everything will be fine.' She leaned forward and took his face into her hands, 'Please listen to me. No one is after you. Moriarty's web has been disintegrated. You're just paranoid, that's all.'

John looked sadly back at her. 'Okay, Molly; like I said, I trust you.' Molly let go of his face and looked down at his hands, which he was holding in his lap, palms up. They were covered in tiny cut marks, probably paper-cuts, which were bleeding slightly.

'I'm going to get you cleaned up. Where's your First Aid kit?' John nodded toward the bathroom and Molly got up and headed across the room. She opened the door and checked the cabinets. The first two were under the sink and filled with typical necessities: deodorant, toothpaste, extra shampoo, razor, shaving cream, etc. Under the third, though, she found cleaning supplies and towels, but behind the towels, there was a small box. She reached back to grab the box, thinking it might be the First Aid kit, but instead, inside, she found three syringes and a tinfoil package of white powder.

**Hello! Huge apologies for the wait! School started and we sold our house and we are moving out this week! Chapters will obviously have to be more spread out because of it, just remember I'm not deserting you!**


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